RAVEN’S POV

The morning breaks.

I haven’t slept much. But sunrise means work.

So I drag myself out of the cot and splash some water on my face.

My hands are much better now, but still fairly wounded.

I move across the training yard toward the kitchen. As I’m passing, I can hear the sparring sounds from the yard. Metals clinking. And grunts of efforts.

I keep walking.

But my feet stop.

Just for a moment. As I watch them.

Lots of wolves in the yard. And in the center -

Adrian.

He’s shirtless. With sweat gleaming all over his perfectly structured body. Moving through sword forms like a pro.

Which he is. Although the war made him even more lethal.

I find myself watching him. Precise strikes. Controlled motion. No wasted movements.

It’s beautiful. In a dangerous way.

He finishes a sequence of the training and looks up.

His eyes find mine.

I should look away. I’m a servant and he’s Beta. Not appropriate in any way.

But I don’t.

He crosses the yard in quick strides toward me. Sword still in his hand.

The other warriors notice. Training slows as they subtly notice their Beta moving to a servant.

Adrian doesn’t seem to care.

He stops just in front of me. Studies me with that unreadable expression.

Then he picks up a practice sword from the rack and tosses it to me.

I catch it.

A bit too perfectly - one handed, and the yard goes still.

No shit.

“Spar with me,” Adrian says.

“Beta, I’m just -“

“A rogue who needs to know how to defend herself.” He raises his sword. “Or are you going to tell me you can’t?”

It’s a challenge.

If I refuse it, he’ll know I’m hiding something.

If I accept it and fight like a Luna in training, he’ll recognize the training there.

I’m trapped.

“I don’t want to waste your time,” I try.

“Then don’t. Fight me.”

Everybody is watching now. Interested. Curious. A servant sparring with a Beta is Netflix-level-entertainment.

I tighten my grip on the sword.

Fine.

I’ll fight. But like a rogue. Scrappy and untrained. Like I’m desperate.

Adrian moves first. A testing strike. Slow enough to read.

I block. Barely. Let the impact jar my arms a bit. Like I’m not used to the weight.

He comes again. Faster this time.

I dodge instead of parrying and stumble slightly.

“Your footwork is sloppy,” he says. Not trying to mock me. Rather an observation.

He strikes high. I duck low. Roll away clumsily.

It makes the warriors laugh.

I can feel their amusement. Poor servant trying to keep up with their trained Beta.

But Adrian isn’t laughing.

His eyes are fixed on me. Watching me too closely.

“Again,” he orders.

He comes at me much harder now. A combination of high, low, and feint strike.

I react without thinking.

Blocking. Parrying. And countering.

My body moves before my brain catches up. Muscle memory taking over.

A Luna’s training.

Adrian’s sword stops an inch from my throat.

The whole yard is silent now.

I’m breathing hard. Standing in a perfect defensive stance. One my father taught me.

Fuck.

“You move like someone trained by a master,” Adrian says quietly. “Not basics.”

I lower my sword. My hearts starts pounding.

“My father was…thorough.”

“Thorough.” He doesn’t believe me. “What pack did you say you were from?”

“I didn’t.”

His jaw tightens. “What pack, Raven?”

“A small one. Northern border. You wouldn’t know it.”

“Try me.”

I can’t give him a real pack name. He’ll check, find out it’s a lie.

“Frost Creek,” I say. Making up the name instantly. “We were small. Isolated. The wolves came in winter when we were weak.”

Adrian studies me. Weighing every word I just splurged.

“I’ve never heard of Frost Creek.”

“Exactly. Like I said. Small.”

He sheathes his sword. And steps closer.

Too close.

“You’re lying,” he says. Not angry. Just certain. I don’t know what about. But you’re lying.”

My throat tightens.

“I’m not -“

His hand catches mine. The one holding the sword.

“You catch like a warrior,” he says softly. “Fight like you’ve been training your whole life. And you flinched when I mentioned checking your pack.”

His thumbs brush over my bandaged knuckles.

“What are you running from, Raven?”

Everything. Nothing. My own grave.

“I’m not running,” I whisper. “I’m just trying to survive.”

He holds my gaze. Searching.

Then he steps back.

“Keep the sword,” he says. “Practice your footwork. If you’re going to survive here, you need to be better.”

Then he walks away.

The pack disperses. Show is over.

I’m left standing there, sword in hand, heart racing.

He knows something’s wrong.

He doesn’t know what. But he’s watching now.

And Adrian doesn’t miss much.

I need to be more careful.

I finally head to the kitchens. Late now. Mrs. Garret will have my head surely.

My wolf stirs uneasily.

“He’s getting too close,” she warns.

I know.

But I can’t avoid him. Not completely. Not without raising even more suspicion.

I just need to be smarter. More careful.

Keep the mask in place.

No more catching swords like a trained warrior.

Or perfect defensive stances.

I push through the kitchen doors.

Sarah glares at me immediately.

“You’re late.”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t wash dishes.” She gestures to the pile. “Get to work.”

I tie on my apron and plunge my hands into the water.

The cuts on my knuckles burn as the soap sees in.

Probably for the better.

The pain would keep me focused.

Remind me I’m not here for Adrian’s attention or his questions or the way his hand felt on mine.

I’m here for justice.

For truth.

For Amara’s throat between my teeth when this is all over.